


Three Years Later

by run_for_me



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Control Issues, Dom/sub, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Paddling, mentions of possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/run_for_me/pseuds/run_for_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles lives in nightmares for three years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the events of Riddled. Unbeta'd. 
> 
> Transferred over from another account.

Stiles lives in nightmares for three years. He wakes up chained to the floor in a dark, cylindrical room and screaming.

“Quiet,” an old firm voice says and, for once in his life, Stiles obeys. A stern face comes into view above him and he sees the glint of one silver finger. “The nogitsune is gone now. You are yourself again.”

It’s such an odd choice of words that Stiles can’t help shaking his head. “Myself,” he croaks. “Who is that?”

The old man smiles humorlessly. “You’ve been gone for three years,” he tells Stiles. “The nogitsune kept you locked down tight. Who you become now is your own choice.”

When Stiles says nothing else, old Silverfinger slowly unlocks him from his chains. He eases Stiles up and Stiles looks at his fingers. One, two, three…

He’s awake but somehow he still wishes he was dreaming.

 

*

 

They’re in London. Silverfinger lets Stiles stay at his mansion. He tells Stiles not to call home, not to look up his friends. Stiles doesn’t really want to, but he makes the mistake of doing so once.

He’s been pronounced dead. The news reports say he was driven by his delusions to run away and is presumed to have died from his frontotemporal dementia. His father quit his job as sheriff. Apparently, he was arrested several times for public drunkenness.

Stiles shuts the computer down after that.

He walks up to Silverfinger’s office. “My brain,” he says bluntly. “Am I still going to die?”

Silverfinger pauses in the middle of his writing. “The nogitsune did that to you to keep you under its control. Now that it is gone, you are healed.”

Stiles nods once. That night he dials his old home phone number. A strange woman picks up. “Clen residence, can I help you?”

Stiles hangs up. He doesn’t try contacting home again.

 

*

 

Silverfinger sets Stiles up with a new identity. Same last name, new first name. Stiles doesn’t mind. He never liked his first name anyway.

He ends up attending the University of London. Silverfinger does something to get him in; Stiles doesn’t ask. He still suffers from ADHD, but now he fights against it more than ever. He doesn’t trust his own body anymore, not after the nogitsune turned it against him so easily. At home, Silverfinger sets rules; he decides when Stiles sleeps, when he eats. He tells Stiles what to study, what to read. He somehow understands that Stiles needs that.

But sometimes it’s not enough.

One of those times, Stiles stumbles into the club. It’s actually less stumbling—he’s walking down the street, feeling strange in his own skin, when a girl walks up to him and says, “follow me.” And he follows.

He learns by watching, not doing. He watches men and women in leather put naked, trembling figures through their paces. He sees pain for the first as something that can bring pleasure, even peace. He sees, in some of those blissful faces, something he desperately wants. He wants someone he can give up all control to like that. He wants.

In general, Stiles tries not to think about the name for it. He tries not to define himself, even as he google-searches deep in the night.

He’s a diligent researcher, though, because some things don’t change. He learns what makes him shiver and what makes him cringe. He learns he likes the idea of it. He’s pretty sure that he’d be addicted after one taste.

He lingers over collars when he passes pet shops. Even the sight of leather gloves makes him breathe more quickly. He’s not sure whether he would have needed it in the same way if the nogitsune hadn’t taken him, but he’s pretty sure he still would have liked it.

After all, he still thinks of leather jackets and growled orders with a strange sort of fondness.

One night, he dresses up in tight black jeans and a tight black shirt, and goes down to the club. He doesn’t buy a drink; he doesn’t sit at the bar. Instead, he wanders towards the back rooms, where couples, or moresomes, can go for the night and “play”.

Within two steps, a strange body is plastered up against his back. “Looking for something?” The man asks, and his voice is husky enough to satisfy Stiles.

Stiles turns around and raises his chin daringly. “If you can give it to me.”

He’s a virgin when he goes into the room. He isn’t when he walks out.

 

*

 

Stiles was right. He gets addicted. He sets strict rules for himself, though. He can only go to the club on weekends and only if all his work has been done. School has to come first. While the club is more than “play” for him, he cannot let it consume him. Even if he wants to.

If he stays away too long, though, he becomes jumpy and impulsive. He doesn’t trust himself alone for long periods of time. His body needs to be controlled. He needs to be controlled.

He lives a life where bruises are constantly littered across his skin and his neck is achingly free of restraint.

One day, he’s kneeling by the doors to the back rooms when a man stops in front of him, with expensive-looking leather boots that Stiles would love to bring himself off against. “Stilinski?” He asks and Stiles would know that voice anywhere.

Ignoring all rules of protocol, his head jerks up. “Jackson?” He exclaims, and it’s not really a question because it is clearly him. His eyes flash momentarily blue and Stiles thinks he can still see something sibilant there.

“What are you doing here?” They both ask at once and then Jackson shakes hi head in irritation. “Not here,” he says, grabbing Stiles’s arm and hauling him back into one of the private rooms.

He sits Stiles down on one of the bondage tables, like he’s got a right to shove Stiles around. Jackson has always been like that, but Stiles has never looked at him and thought “dom” before.

Jackson stands a little ways away, arms crossed, gaze foreboding. “Why are you here?” He asks again. “And like that.” His eyes rake down Stiles’s body, as if submission is something Stiles is wearing.

If they’d been anywhere else, Stiles could have, and would have, blown Jackson off. Here, he’s trained himself to obey. The whole story comes pouring out. When he finishes, Stiles stares at his hands. One, two, three… He can’t look up.

Cool fingers come under his chin and tilt his face up. “I know how it feels to be controlled by someone else,” Jackson says plainly. “It’s why I’m here too. Because I’m the only one I can trust.”

Different methodologies, same idea. Stiles feels safer than he’s felt in a long time.

 

*

 

Two months later, he moves into Jackson’s apartment. It’s closer to the center of the city than Silverfinger’s mansion, but still in one of the wealthier districts. The walls are soundproofed.

It’s not really sexual, the thing between them. Stiles doesn’t even know if Jackson is into men. He doesn’t really know if Jackson is into men. He doesn’t really know if he is into men either. But sometimes, if Stiles is feeling particularly unsettled, Jackson will instruct him on how to suck his cock.

It’s still not that sexual, though. All it means is that Stiles has got a soft, personalized collar around his neck and someone to watch out for him. He has someone to share his bed with and new rules to follow. He has the kind of enforced structure he’s been craving his whole life.

They eat dinner together every night. Apparently, Jackson cooks. One night, Stiles asks him, “have you talked to any of them since?”

Jackson doesn’t ask who “they” are. He just says, “no.” Then he adds, “you shouldn’t either.”

It’s not a command. Stiles almost wishes it was.

 

*

 

Stiles likes the aerated paddle least. He presents it to Jackson one day when he gets home. He doesn’t say anything else. Just sits and waits.

There’s a rustle as Jackson takes off his suit jacket. “Undress,” he commands and Stiles does. “Get on the coffee table,” he says, and Stiles does.

Each blow hurts as Jackson swings the paddle with ferocity. Stiles tries to keep quiet because he wasn’t told to make noise. He tries a lot, but Jackson is merciless with his blows. It isn’t long before Stiles’s arms are trembling, his knees aching. Isn’t long before he’s crying out with each hit.

Still, Jackson doesn’t let up.

Stiles is sobbing, his whole body shaking. “I’m sorry!” He wails with one hit and he falls to his elbows. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

The paddle stops its brutal rhythm. Jackson gathers Stiles up in his arms and lets him cry into his stiff white shirt. He keeps Stiles naked as he feeds him soup after.

“I was thinking of calling my dad,” Stiles tells him in bed later. Jackson frowns, but doesn’t say a word.

 

*

 

The next day, Jackson hands him a slip of white paper with a number scrawled on it. “It’s your choice,” he says.

Stiles doesn’t like choices anymore, but he can’t deny that he needs this one.

His hands shake a bit as he dials the number. The phone rings four times before a voice answers. It’s sad, weary, and old beyond its time. “Hello?”

Stiles clutches the phone closer as he rasps out, “hi, Dad.”


End file.
